


Made of neither nitroglycerin nor sugar glass

by orphan_account



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: BAMF!Bond, BAMF!Q, British fortitude, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rescue, Stalking, improvised devices, improvised explosives, kidnapped!Q, life hacking, unorthodox uses of bicycle wheels and toasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:03:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An insane stalker has been following Q for months, even building up two separate identities just to capture him. Careful as he has been, though, he makes the unfortunate mistake of locking the weapons expert in a storage basement. And the even bigger mistake of discounting his prey's secret agent boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made of neither nitroglycerin nor sugar glass

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the following prompt:  
> "Q gets stalked by OMC. OMC kidnaps Q and forces himself on him, gags, Polaroids, feeling, smelling then taking him, all that stalker stuff. He does not count on an enraged Bond finding out and rescuing him though."
> 
> General Warning: This fic contains some real, probably illegal, definitely dangerous recipes for home-made explosions and smoke signals, as you would expect from a story about a weapons expert trapped in a basement. Q knows what he's doing, but you might not, so don't try these at home!
> 
> Disclaimer: I may be portraying a rape victim and his partner as being unrealistically clear-headed and stoic (at least on the surface). I am not suggesting that this is how victims should be; remember that these characters are _fictional_ exemplars of British fortitude.
> 
> Title note: Upon being touched, nitroglycerin can explode and sugar glass can shatter.
> 
> Apologies: To the prompter: I'm sorry if this isn't what you wanted. Since you didn't mention what Q was doing, I suspect you wanted Q to fight back a lot less, but writing non-con is hard, and it's easier to write what we wished we'd do than what we'd actually do.  
> To everyone: Sorry for orphaning this work, but after sleeping on it, I have decided that I'm not comfortable posting non-con non-anonymously. If you read this before it was orphaned, please don't out me.

Q woke up to find that he was in a dank basement, naked, with his hands cuffed behind his back. He was sitting propped up against a corner of the room. He considered moving for a moment before deciding to take stock of his situation first. There were bruises on his arms and his backside was sore. There was a deep cut in his left shoulder blade, so it wasn't a large leap to conclude that his MI6 tracking device had been taken out. They wouldn't be able to find him for a while.

Still, best not to dwell on the obstacles; he needed to focus on his next move. _Assets_ , Q thought looking around the room. There were mains in the wall and some undoubtedly broken electronics. He could pull a thick wire out of something to pick the handcuffs, but the basement was clearly locked from the outside, so he needed a better exit strategy than that.

There was a bicycle wheel with aluminium spokes and a hacksaw that he could use to turn the spokes into aluminium shavings, which he could then dunk into the toilet bowl cleaner (4 Al + 6 HCl → 2 Al2Cl3 \+ 3 H2, his brain supplied readily). It would be great if he could find a compression chamber. Was there any canned air lying around? Why couldn't he _think_?

With a metallic thud, the huge lock on the basement door opened. As he looked up to see his captor, Q tried to remember the tranquillity Bond always showed in such situations. Bond would face this with cool equanimity, and so could Q. Bond would control his fear and put a smirk on and--

“Ed?” Q furrowed his brow in confusion. He did not have his glasses on, but the face was unmistakeable at such close range. It was Ed, the friendly server at the bar went with his friends to every few weeks. The bar he had been at last night, when--oh, _oh_.

“You drugged me.”

“Hmm, yes, sweetie, you have far too many habits for someone who works in intelligence. It's remarkably easy to get a job at Archie's Tavern with credentials like mine.”

Q thought back. Come to think of it, Ed _had_ only been working at Archie's for a few months.

“You... you took a job for _months_ just to get to me?” Wait, think like Bond, he reminded himself. He forced a smirk. “I'm flattered.”

“Oh, baby, I took more than one job to get to you. You didn't think I was actually a taxi driver either, did you?”

More of last night started coming back to Q. After he got drunk--in hindsight, entirely too drunk for how much alcohol he had consumed--his friends ushered him into a taxi. Oh _god_.

“You. But, someone would have recognised--”

Ed laughed. “Here's the thing about tipsy Londoners on a Saturday night: they'd take any taxi they can find. Don't think to look closely at the cabbie.”

“Do you really think you're going to get away with this?”

“Hmm, MI6 never found out what happened to that pretty Head of Accounting four years ago, did it? But I suppose that would have been before your time.”

“What do you want from me?”

“What _don't_ I want from you, hmm?” Ed knelt on the floor in front of where Q was sitting and leaned in close, closing his eyes as he inhaled the scent of Q's neck.

 _Wait, seriously?_ Q wondered. This guy spent months running a long con, building up not one, but two separate identities to capture an MI6 treasure, and all he wanted was sex? Had Q fallen into one of those fan-fiction universes he'd learned about when investigating a few girls doing suspicious research about explosives and torture?

Apparently he had, for Ed sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Q and ran a hand softly down Q's face and neck and then across his shoulder blade. Q shivered as Ed's hand moved down his side. He forced himself to calm down and looked straight through Ed, the way he had seen Bond do in the occasional footage of his captivity.

“Such a pretty boy,” Ed murmured. 

Q's breath quickened as Ed's hand moved over his cock. In a bout of ultimate betrayal, his cock twitched under Ed's ministrations. Ed licked his hand and continued to stroke Q.

“It looks like you're ready for another round, hmm?”

Q felt himself still as the freeze part of the fight-flight-freeze response kicked in, and Ed bodily dragged him up and shoved him over a table. 

White hot pain bloomed when Ed shoved in without preparation, and Q yelled despite himself.

“Quiet, or I'll gag you,” Ed warned.

Unbearable pressure burning inside Q, and of course, the spray paint cans could make a perfect pressurised container, though now that he thought of it, plenty of things in the basement were rusting, so if he just directly combined the aluminium shavings with scraped off rust, he could make thermite to blow out the doors, Fe2O3 \+ 2 Al → 2 Fe + Al2O3, but how would he ignite it? And even if he could get outside, he didn't know where he was, so, so...

So much pain--he bit back a scream, no he couldn't do this alone, he needed to communicate, and some of the broken electronics in the basement probably had diodes and capacitors and he could get an electric wire out of anywhere, but the hardest part of a radio to improvise was the headset, and it didn't look like Ed kept any old telephones here, but--oh yes, telephone.

Ed hadn't actually bothered to fully remove his trousers, so if Q could just reach far enough, he wouldn't even need a radio, and _yes_ he snagged Ed's mobile phone and slipped it out, just as Ed was pushing into him and he shouted as he tossed the phone under the table to mask the sound of the phone hitting the ground.

“I said I'd gag you,” Ed whispered harshly. He pulled out abruptly, ripped a piece of cloth of his shirt, tied a knot in it and tied it around Q's face, with the knot sitting in Q's mouth. Q whimpered, and gave a token struggle, but it was easier to calm down now that he had got what he wanted.

Ed pushed Q back down and shoved in again, his hand wrapping around to continue stroking Q. His sweat was dripping on Q, and Q's sweat was dripping on the table. Ed came with a shout and pulled out, but continued to stroke Q until the latter came as well.

“Beautiful,” Ed whispered gently. “Such a good boy.”

Q lay motionless on the table as Ed got off him.

“I'll go get you some water, hmm? You just hang tight.”

Ed stepped out of the basement and locked the door behind him. After his steps creaked up the stairs, he knelt under the table and manoeuvred himself until he could grab the phone with his hands still cuffed behind them. He hid the phone inside an old toaster and sat back down on the ground next to the table.

Ed returned with a glass of water. Without a word, knelt down in front of Q, pulled out the gag, letting it rest around Q's neck, and gently fed him the water.

“Thank you,” Q rasped with as much sincerity as he could muster.

Ed smiled, kissed Q's cheek, and gently squeezed his shoulder before leaving.

When he was gone again, Q went back to the toaster. For the first time in his life, he was glad that he could take apart a toaster with his eyes closed; the skill was a cause of much annoyance in his childhood, when he was prone to sleep-walking. He pulled a wire out of the toaster and deftly bent it to fit into the handcuff keyhole.

The handcuffs clicked open gratifyingly, and Q immediately stuck his finger down his throat, triggering his gag reflex, and vomiting back up as much of the water as he could. He didn't know whether it was drugged, and he didn't feel like taking the chance.

That done, Q plucked the phone out of the toaster.

It was a burner phone, with no data plan and no GPS. It couldn't even text. Q dialled the first number that came to mind.

“Hello,” Bond answered the phone before the first ring ended.

“Bond, it's me,” Q said, barely above a whisper.

“Q! Where are you? Who's doing this?”

“I don't know; I'm in a basement somewhere. The mobile's a burner, but you can still trace it to the cellular region. It was Ed--the server at Archie's Tavern. He's been stalking me for months. He took the job there just to stalk me.”

“Fuck. Okay. I want you to listen as hard as you can. Can you hear anything?”

Q strained his ears. He could hear Ed padding around upstairs. He listened harder. There was a repetitive metal thudding. Construction? It sounded more like a jack-hammer. Roadwork, then.

“Ed moving upstairs. And roadwork, very faintly.”

“You can hear roadwork? Are you sure?”

“Yes, definitely.”

“All the locations with roadwork within the mobile cell,” Q heard Bond's muffled demand to someone else. There was a conversation that Q couldn't catch.

“How many minutes do you have on the phone?”

“About twenty-five minutes now?”

“I'm going to send emergency vehicles. Call me when you hear sirens.”

“Okay. Hanging up.”

Q closed his eyes and waited.

An interminable amount of time later (seventeen minutes, according to the mobile phone), he heard the faint sounds of an ambulance. He called Bond immediately.

“Hear it,” he said. He realised he could hear the ambulance more loudly through the mobile. The sounds seemed to be in phase. “And I think it's you.”

The siren sound stopped abruptly, both through the wall and over the mobile.

“Can you hear it now?”

“No. Just stopped.”

“Good, you're doing great. But there are a lot of houses here--can you give us a description of the house at all?”

“I was unconscious when I was brought in...” Q said.

As he glanced around, he had a sudden moment of clarity.

“But I think I can still give you something,” Q smiled into the phone. “I can send you a smoke signal.”

He untied the gag that was still around his neck, pulled the rubber off the bicycle wheel, wrapped the cloth around the rubber, and doused the whole thing in a petroleum solvent floor cleaner. Then, he took the plug from the toaster and used it as a make-shift screwdriver to undo the bottom screw on the vents.

Finally, he ripped the wires out of the toaster and shorted the mains against the solvent-covered bundle until it ignited, took a deep breath, threw the bundle into the ventilation shaft, and replaced the screws, letting out his breath as he did so.

Slowly the room filled up with thick black smoke--the trademark of burning rubber. He knew it would take a few minutes for the signal to get up high enough for Bond to see it, so he needed to get out of the basement.

“Ed, help!” He shouted, slipping the mobile phone back in the toaster and putting the handcuffs back on. “I can't breathe! Help!”

Ed charged into the room, with a gun in his left hand, grabbed Q with his right hand, and dragged him up the stairs.

“Sorry about this,” Ed muttered, “I've never had a problem with the air conditioning here before.”

There wasn't even a hint of irony in his voice. Q wondered whether he really thought he was being a gracious host.

Once upstairs, Ed settled Q on the floor in the kitchen and put the gun on the counter. Then, he opened the windows to let the smoke out, and started duct taping the vents.

“Please, I need water,” Q said, when the air had cleared and Ed had picked up his gun again.

Ed fetched a glass from the dish rack and put the gun back on the counter as he filled the glass with water from the tap. He went to Q as if to feed it to him as he had done before, when a shot rang out.

Ed let out a yelp, dropped the glass, and fell to his knees. A crimson patch of blood blossomed on his trousers over his right knee. He tried to reach for his own gun, but was immediately tackled to the ground by a force of fury.

Bond grappled for a few seconds with Ed, until he managed to get Ed on his back, with Bond straddled over him. In the meantime, Q slipped out of the handcuffs; he had, of course, put them on himself with enough leeway to slip out.

“Are you okay?” Bond asked Q with false nonchalance, as Ed continued to struggle under him.

“Well, I could actually use some water,” Q returned the same air of nonchalance. “And some clothes. And a rape kit. Nice call with the sirens, by the way.”

“Thanks. Nice smoke signal,” Bond returned, as Ed stopped struggling. Bond held out a hand, and Q gave him the handcuffs, which he promptly secured around Ed's wrists. 

Bond went to the counter and rinsed and filled a glass with water for Q.

“Well, the basement was fairly well stocked,” Q said as Bond handed him the water.

“Glad you enjoyed your accommodations. Did he ask for information about MI6?” Bond asked, as he prowled around the living room looking for something. Q didn't know what it was until Bond stepped into a hallway and came out with Q's clothes.

“No, actually. Nothing like that. He had entirely different interests,” Q said as Bond placed the clothes on ground next to Q.

Bond didn't say anything, but his lips tightened fractionally. He stood awkwardly around three feet away from Q, as though he wanted to comfort him, but didn't know how.

“I'm not made of nitroglycerin,” Q remarked, taking a sip of water. “Nor of sugar glass.”

That was all Bond needed to make the last few steps towards Q. He pushed the clothes out of the way and sat down next to him, wrapping one arm around Q.

There was a faint sound of police and ambulance sirens. Bond and Q sat in silence as the sirens grew louder.

“They won't come in until I tell them to,” Bond said gently. “Are you okay?”

Q giggled, spraying the water he was trying to drink. “Do I bloody look okay?” he asked between fits of giggles. Bond brushed his hand softly up and down Q's shoulder until Q calmed down.

“Help me get dressed,” Q said finally. “I'll be okay.”

And maybe, someday, it would be true, Q thought to himself, as Bond leaned forward to get his clothes.

**Author's Note:**

> N.B: Fight/flight/freeze is an actual thing, though in school we're usually taught that it's just fight/flight. Many people only learn about "freeze" the hard way and later ask why their bodies betrayed them and didn't fight or flee like their teachers promised them they would, but hey, they survived, and surviving is the whole point of the reaction.


End file.
